A Matter of Time
by pagerunner
Summary: Carlos, still investigating the unspoken oddities of Night Vale, runs into a problem with time - and with certain forces who don't want him prying into it. Still, in a town like this one, help can arrive from the most unlikely of places. Follows on from "The Voice of Night Vale," also posted here.


It's the simple questions, sometimes, that trip Carlos up the worst.

It's easy to get answers - incomprehensible ones, but _meant _to help just the same - about topics like the statue that appears in town every second Tuesday, or why anyone thought that semaphore traffic signals were a good idea. What Carlos can't corral are things that should be simple, well-established facts.

For one: the very idea of birthdays.

"When's my what?" Cecil is saying, while sorting out legal release forms for the next batch of interns. He and Cecil are standing beside his desk, in the dimly lit and cramped radio booth. Carlos keeps tracing over a vaguely eye-shaped coffee stain on the desk, looking like it dates from the paleolithic era. "Carlos, darling, is this important?"

"I just don't think I've actually asked how old you are. Seems like something I ought to know, if we're…."

Cecil looks hopeful at whatever the next word might be. Carlos thinks over a couple possibilities, blushes, and says, "Dating."

Cecil smiles.

"Well. I appreciate the interest, but this might not be the time. There's a _protocol _to these things, you know…."

"A protocol?" He blinks, nonplussed. "Isn't someone's age just basic information? Especially if you want to avoid unintentional cradle-robbing, or…."

"Yes. _That's _a job best left to the hooded figures."

Carlos stares at him. His fingers freeze in position on the table. "Not what I meant," he replies, his voice strained.

"I should hope not. Anyway - I think this is something we should discuss another time. I do need to go on air soon."

"Discuss?"

"Yes."

"I'm… confused, Cecil. It's not complicated. It's just a number. Like that my birthday is on….."

There's a low rumble, enough to jolt Carlos back. "What was that?"

"Station Management." Cecil's voice drops, and he makes _lower-the-volume _motions. "They get _irritable _about these things sometimes."

"About _birthdays?"_

"All sorts of festivities. I mean, there's a list of municipally approved holidays, I'm sure you know that" - Carlos doesn't - "but otherwise, it's hard to know what sets them off." Cecil glances anxiously over one shoulder. "I was threatened with re-education once after I inappropriately mentioned… well… a certain _occasion_…. concerning groundhogs - oh, dear."

The rumble increases, enough that Cecil has to grab for a jar of paper clips that's rattling its way off the desk. Carlos just backs against the wall and shudders. They both stay silent until the tantrum passes.

"All right," Carlos says at last. "I can let the… natal anniversary… lie." _At least in this room, _he privately amends, while staring at Management's office door. He wonders sometimes how Cecil can stand it here, but Cecil only gives him such a reassuring look that Carlos' tension eases. Unfortunately. It lets another question slip out. "But really, how old are-"

The response from Station Management is immediate and terrible. The sound alone splinters a lightbulb above Cecil's desk; the shards and splinters explode into midair warning blasts. Then there's an uneven, dour _creak. _Station Management's door is opening. Carlos fumbles for the exit, but the doorhandle refuses to budge.

Swearing, he looks wide-eyed at Cecil, who grasps his shoulders with both hands and whispers, "Carlos. Get the cans and hide under the desk."

For a moment he wonders what Cecil means, and if this is another inexplicable Night Vale ritual that can only be conducted with cans of sliced peaches, pickled chicken's feet and a blowtorch, but Cecil only looks exasperated and hisses, _"The headphones." _

"Oh." Embarrassed, Carlos does as he's told. The headset's old, slightly musty and not entirely noise-canceling, but it does muffle the worst of the shrieking. It doesn't, of course, deflect the eerie lights or the suggestion of smoke around Station Management's office. "Cecil," he whispers. "I'm sorry-"

Cecil murmurs something he doesn't quite hear, but it sounds gentle. Carlos tries to hold to that instead of the way Cecil is trembling as he approaches Management's door.

Somewhere beyond the angle of his vision, Cecil's trying to talk Station Management down. A shadow suggests placating gestures, although the reply still shakes the walls. A few script pages drift down from Cecil's desk. Carlos glimpses censorious lines stricken through one paragraph, and a hasty note from Cecil in the margins, which he can only barely make out in this light: _Don't mention the angels. _

Carlos clutches the page, silently begging to understand, and that the horrid noises will _stop, _when all at once… they do. Carlos tentatively lifts one side of the headphones. There's the sound of a door closing, and a low, shaken sigh.

He scrambles out from beneath the desk, pulling the headphones off and hastily tossing them aside.

"Cecil? Cecil, are you-"

He turns. There's the ghost of a smile there, undoubtedly for Carlos' sake, but it's worn. Carlos goes to him, letting the script page flutter away.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think _that _would make them angry. Or maybe - maybe it's just me…."

"No. Oh, my Carlos, no, it's not your fault." His eyes glimmer strangely. "It's not you."

Carlos _wonders _again, but he blurts out the one thing he knows to be true: "That was the bravest thing I've ever seen."

Cecil tries to brush that off. Carlos, though, kisses him on the forehead, then softly on the lips. "Yes, it was." He stands with Cecil for a moment before reluctantly saying, "I'd better go before anything else happens."

"You don't have to," Cecil murmurs.

"But… your show."

"Oh. Yes." Cecil withdraws, although he looks very much like he doesn't want to let go. "The door should open now."

It does, although Carlos doesn't want to ask how it unlocked itself again, or how Cecil knew. He pauses there to wave. Cecil does the same, eyes warm, even if the answering gesture is unsteady. "See you tonight?"

"Of course," Carlos says. Cecil relaxes, at least by a fraction.

But Carlos sees that when Cecil picks up the headphones, he holds onto them in no small part like a lifeline.

…

Some ordinary things do happen in Night Vale, Carlos has observed, although it's difficult to sustain mundanity for very long.

So he's not wholly surprised that when he goes grocery shopping that day, he finds himself discussing an imaginary newspaper with a beautiful woman and her bearded child, amidst the sad, depleted remains of the bakery.

Cactus Jane, or Judy - or perhaps it's Joan - says hello first. She rarely speaks to anyone in town, but she seems fond of Carlos. Perhaps she recognizes the outsider in him. So he returns the greeting, and considers the child in her arms. "This is Champ?" Her baby had been asleep last time, and well-bundled, so this is rather a first. "Well. Hello."

The baby stares back. Carlos feels adrift. He's never known what to say to babies - he admits it's a failing - and when they're this somber, and… well, _out of sequence… _it's disconcerting. "He's very… striking, Miss…?"

He's fishing for a name. She doesn't give it. She only corrects him gently with, "It's 'Mrs.'"

"Oh, yes." He remembers distantly that she's married. Or was married. He's not sure of the specifics. "I did see your wedding photo, I think. In the paper."

"And Champ's birth notice made it in, I hope?"

He nods. Her wedding photo is an indistinct memory, but that little bearded face had been hard to miss. "I'm… still not sure how that even _works _with an imaginary newspaper, though," he admits.

Cactus Jane, or Judy, smiles thinly. Even then it's beautiful. "They have their ways."

"I think I prefer Cecil's announcements…."

"So do I."

That thought abruptly brings him back to his station visit, and the run-in with Management. _Why did they get so angry? _he wonders again. For the life of him, he can't come up with an answer.

Joan watches with silent concern. Then she speaks again. There's a light, undefinable accent there he hadn't picked out before.

"I used to hear him, out in the desert," she tells him. "Cecil, that is. I'd always listen when I could."

"You had a radio out there?"

She shakes her head, patting Champ absently as she does. "No. But it's all just air. It carries."

Not long ago, a pronouncement like that would have given him pause. Now, Carlos turns slightly, as if from the right angle he might be able to hear Cecil too.

"He speaks very fondly of you," she says, subtly knowing.

Carlos flushes. "Also loudly. And frequently."

"I'm glad, though. He's had such a lonely vigil."

Carlos smiles ruefully. "I suppose that's true," he says, picturing Cecil at the desk. Always Cecil, at the desk. "It's just that sometimes I feel like this entire town knows everything about me, but…."

_I don't know enough about him. _

He trails off mid-sentence. Joan just waits.

Underneath it all, there _is _something strange he knows about Cecil, or used to know… but his memory's as blurred as it is about Jane's absent husband. Most days, whatever-it-is just slips away and stops mattering. Here, under such inspection - and after such a troubling day at the station - it's bothering him again.

He glances up at the broken wall clock. Apropos of nothing, but before she can ask for more, he says, "Do you miss your cactus?"

She takes a moment. "Sometimes," she admits. "But it's better for Champ here. Someday he'll need to wander… but for now… we have a home."

Her head tilts. All that sun-gold hair of hers is pinned into place with long, slender cactus spikes. He wonders how they don't just make her bleed.

"What about you?" she asks.

"Me?"

"Do you miss _your _home?"

Carlos thinks about it, discomfited. He honestly isn't sure. He misses _logic, _and not waking up to find his shoes inexplicably stuck to the ceiling, and being able to rely on time. But he hasn't dwelled on it much otherwise. He's too busy with the mysteries here. With the people. With Cecil.

A sad smile crosses Joan's (or Jane's…) pretty face when his own expression goes softer at that thought.

"Maybe you should speak to the Daily Journal," she says. "They could help with your questions."

"I didn't say I had-"

"Seems scientists always have questions," she says mildly. "And they have an archive."

"Good point," he murmurs.

"Just… be careful. History here's…." One hand moves, as if to suggest shifting sands. The other holds Champ tighter. "Unstable."

"What do you mean?"

She doesn't answer. "And take an offering."

Carlos feels entirely befuddled now, but then he remembers. Vindictive newspaper editors, threatened by the encroaching blogosphere and the march of progress, making terrible threats against anything that even remotely threatens them….

"Any ideas?" he says in a small voice.

She points at the one shelf that isn't standing bare. This answer at least is so simple he has to wonder if she's teasing: "Everyone likes cookies."

"Right," he replies, dazed.

She nods a farewell and turns away. Champ's strangely perceptive gaze watches him all the while. Carlos ducks his head, unnerved by it, then plucks up a bag of cookies. They're vegan and gluten-free, of course. Nothing else would do here. He can only hope that Jane's strategy is on the mark.

_And, _a dour voice reminds him, _that you can handle whatever you discover in the process._

Carlos sighs and ponders the bag. "For science," he says wryly, and with the rest of his shopping forgotten, he heads off to the checkstand.

…

The Night Vale Daily Journal's offices look worryingly like a stronghold on first approach.

Carlos surveys the sturdy construction and imposing fences. The latter especially seem to say, _We are prepared against all comers, and we are STAYING. _Carlos braces himself and heads to the front door regardless, where he's greeted by editor Leann Hart. She's carrying a pen as if she might as well be wielding a club.

"Erm, hello," Carlos says, feeling instantly like an idiot. This town does not put him at his best sometimes. More firmly, he starts over and introduces himself.

"I'm Carlos. I'm a scientist, still new in town. I had a couple questions about…"

_My boyfriend. This town. My whole nonsensical life. _

"Night Vale history," he finishes, nearly coughing on everything he _didn't _say. "I wondered if I might be allowed to see your archives."

She looks skeptical. "Are you a science _blogger, _then?"

The door swings open further. Behind her on the office wall is a lovingly mounted hatchet. Carlos swallows.

"No, Ms. Hart; it's personal research. I might seek journal publication for it later…."

She glowers, eyebrows drawing tight.

"But I'd be happy to grant you an exclusive interview," he hastens to add. Hart's expression shifts into an unnerving sort of hunger. "I'd just like access to your back issues. I'm sure they could help me fill in some blanks."

"Hmm." Clearly, she's already contemplating bylines and column inches. "That could be arranged."

"Also, I brought cookies."

He thrusts out the bag. Hart still looks distracted, but her gaze darts down regardless. "Are those macadamia?"

Fortunately, they are. Her eyes light up. _Thank you, Cactus Whichever, _Carlos thinks fervently, as Hart waves him inside. He steps around the cheerfully munching editor, making his way to the rear offices alone.

He has no idea what he's about to find in there.

He has _some _experience with Night Vale historical documents, after all. The weight of time does strange things to them. He'd asked once after Cecil's old tapes, and found that they only survived a few months before either degrading or transmuting entirely. One storage drawer produced a burst of flowers formed from magnetic tape loops, smelling faintly of actual violets. The next put out runners that tried to twine around his arms and yank him into the cabinet. Carlos managed only at the last moment to slam the drawer shut and sever the tape. Cecil was mortified. Carlos hid his bruises, kicked the tape slices aside, and tried to pretend it was no big deal.

It _was _a big deal. It's still a big deal. Which is why he's got a pocket lighter and an X-Acto knife on standby.

He wonders anxiously what Hart would say if she knew.

_She's busy with the cookies. Just do your thing, Carlos. _

He shoulders the door open and looks inside.

At least the archive room is neatly organized. Through a long window on the back wall, he can see the dormant printing press. In front of that stand file cabinets, hanging racks, a yellowing microfiche machine. Carlos considers his options. He's come to look up the history of the radio station. He's come to look up Cecil….

_Jane mentioned birth notices, _he thinks, running one fingertip along the date-range labels on the cabinets. _He's from here. Surely he would've been listed. _

Starting with a rough guess, he goes back about three decades and starts poring through clippings.

He continues for quite some time.

Tantalizing headlines flash past him. _Sentient tarantulas evicted by wildcat gang, _reads one. _Local ghost awarded civic commendation, _another. But the birth notices aren't giving him anything useful. More strangely, some years take forever to get through, while others are vanishingly short. Nothing seems to be missing - events follow each other more or less logically - but it's… compressed.

Thanks to that, he's back 70 years before he even realizes it. He must have missed his target. Time to switch tactics….

"Maybe there was an interview," he mutters, pushing his borrowed chair back down the aisle. "Something about the station."

His chair wheels pick that moment to screech. Rattled, Carlos peeks around to see Hart through the window. She hasn't noticed him. She's on the phone, and still inspecting the contents of the cookie bag. He's got time.

Determined, Carlos sets to it.

There, he gets luckier. In recent issues, there's definitely mentions of Cecil - tinged with distrust for any non-print reporter, he notes. Carlos smiles lopsidedly. It isn't stopping the writer from waxing rhapsodic about his voice anyway.

_On that, at least, we agree, _he thinks, warming faintly. He forces himself to push that aside and keep reading. Unfortunately, the editorial doesn't include any personal data. There's no age listed, or any mention of family. Carlos fidgets with it, then stows it and goes on digging.

His concern only grows more intense the further he goes.

_What exactly are you after here, Carlos? _he thinks, by the time he's a decade back again, and desperate for context. _Why do you need to know? _

"Because _he_ doesn't answer," he mutters aloud, and pulls out another folder.

To his surprise, there's a photograph of Cecil this time.

He's halfway blocked by the microphone, so the image really only gives a suggestion of his face - the same hair, the same glasses, half of that familiar smile. Carlos reflexively strokes the edge of the photograph. Only then does something else strike him: the date.

Cecil looks exactly the same. And the photo is 15 years old.

Carlos squints, wondering if the photo was misfiled. But the date scrawled across the back is definite, and the paper seems appropriately aged. He slides it back into the folder. _Maybe he just ages well, _Carlos thinks. _Really well. _

He stares at the open drawer. Then he slowly pushes it shut and goes back down the aisle, even further than he'd gone before.

This time he's fishing out clippings by instinct and impulse, and finding Cecil's name almost immediately.

_Cecil, our Night Vale Community Radio host,_ _triumphantly announced the opening of an all new bowling alley and family fun complex…._

Carlos unconsciously puts one hand to the scars on his torso, remembering. Desert Flower. The same place. When it was brand new.

The clipping is fifty-three years old.

"Named after his father?" he wonders aloud, but then there's a photo, and Cecil's only standing there in silhouette, a little ways apart from the crowd, but _oh_….

_This isn't happening, _he thinks unsteadily.

Carlos shoves the clipping away and stands with a lurch, yanking another drawer open at random. The date on this one is August of 1923.

"Don't you dare," he whispers, either to himself or to Cecil, he isn't sure - but he keeps reading anyway.

He's flipping through pages with such scattershot force, in fact, that the floor is soon littered with flyaway clippings and aging newsprint. None of that even matters to him, because soon enough, what he's staring at is a photo of the newly christened offices of Night Vale Community Radio. It's presided over by a series of civic figures - the mayor, for one, and a suited financier, and that might even be the sheriff - and then there's someone so terribly familiar, whose left hand is attempting to cover a coffee stain on the desk. It's as if to hide the fact that they've just started up, and he's already blemished the furniture.

_Cecil. _

All Carlos can see around him is this black-and-white world, aging and crumbling at the edges.

_History here is unstable, _Jane's voice reminds him, while light crackles in the periphery. For a moment, the photo lives. He can see the shadows of Station Management, their tendrils touching everyone; he feels the distant reverberation of their voices, too, and his head aches instantly. Then there's symbols, odd lines of power, insinuating their way through the room and caressing Cecil's skin like living tattoos - and oh, God, he's seen those before, he's _seen them before_….

Carlos hollers and drops the folder. It lands with a crash that paper can't possibly produce, and a flash of light and sound like sirens. The sheriff in the photo is bellowing something. _Trespasser! Get him out of here! _

Carlos whirls and tries to run for the door, but someone's already there: three figures dressed in black and trying so hard to look inconspicuous that they can't be anything but the Sheriff's Secret Police. He tries to shove them off, but it's like Judy warned him: he's standing on unstable sands. Before he's even really started, they have his hands bound behind him. There's no getting to that knife or lighter now.

Worse, he's just seen Leann Hart lounging in the distance, licking crumbs off her fingers.

"That's him, like I said," she confirms, pointing lazily. "Not sure what he wants with all this, but I just _know _he's planning to blog about it."

"I am _not _going to - for God's sake, let me _go!"_

One of the policemen steps in, somberly regarding the mess. He swivels around one particular piece of debris. Gingerly he picks up the old radio station photo, touching only its very edges. He holds it away from himself as if it might explode.

Grimly he tells the other two, "He knows."

Carlos' head jerks up. Sweat prickles on his brow, and he feels abruptly cold.

"_Know? _What do I know that I'm not supposed to?" He struggles against the policemen's grip. "This is _ridiculous. _What do you want with me?"

The man leans close. A quiet voice issues from behind the mask.

"Re-education," it whispers.

"Wait," Carlos says again - but time is still out of joint, it seems, and now everything's happening too fast to stop. Something covers his eyes and muffles his mouth, and a dangerously sweet smell twines its way through his senses. Something's whispering terrible things. He doesn't want to listen.

He doesn't have much choice.

_Carlos, _it says, and pain blossoms in his head.

He can only whisper Cecil's name before it wins.

...

The world feels distant from here, held at bay beyond the plain, pale walls of this room.

The floor, hardwood, stands bare; the walls have no windows, and the ceiling above vanishes to shadow, miles away. Yet there's light pouring in from some unseen skylight. It changes angles every time he turns.

In every direction, the room stretches off further than he can see. And when he tries a few tentative steps, the footfalls make no sound at all.

That's the first thing that scares him.

"Hello?" he says. At least he can hear himself, although it's muffled; the air here is too thick and cloying, if it's even air at all. He breathes it anyway. _Clear your head. They gave you something. They're messing with you - so don't let them. _

He tries. He calls toward the unreachable ceiling.

"Whatever point you're trying to prove, you've made it, all right? I get it. Stop _trying to understand." _He spits that out bitterly. "You win. Now enough with the theatrics."

Nothing answers. The light goes sharper, and strangely colored.

"Are you listening?" he shouts. "Secret Police? Or are you the Vague But Menacing Government Agency Cecil keeps ranting about? Does it make any difference if I know who you are now? You _got _me. I'm _here." _

There's a faint, discordant hum. Carlos hitches his shoulders and rubs at his temples, but the sound doesn't dislodge. He works his jaw, trying vainly to make his ears pop.

He misses proper white noise. He misses, suddenly and with terrible potency, the radio.

The room doesn't care. It grows slowly darker, and Carlos hears something _crack_.

"Hello?" he says. To his shame, his voice cracks, too.

Then there's a spill of color down the walls, charcoal and crimson and deepest void.

Carlos backs up, although there's nowhere to go. This time, his footsteps squelch, and he's afraid to see why. The hum increases into a murmur of voices, like unseen children chanting - and whatever lessons they're reciting, Carlos has no interest whatsoever in learning them. He plants his hands over his ears, wishing he still had Cecil's headphones here to help.

_Think of his voice, _he tells himself. _Focus on that. Focus on anything but _them.

He starts imagining Cecil's last show, and he works hard at it, too, because the voices are getting louder.

And he's starting to see shadows moving through the hall.

Carlos ducks aside from a passing figure. He does _not _want to let those things touch him. Something like sparks surrounds them, but it's the _absence _of light - little pinpricks of nothingness, singeing what they touch. One burns a pathway between a tangle of antique school desks. Those are toppled on their sides, and atop them are crouching cats with too many limbs and heads and teeth….

_Koshekh, _he thinks wildly. _Think of Koshekh, and that… well… horrible screeching meow of his… because that's better than this, even that's better than this…. _

One of the creatures starts to say his name, in a voice like chalk and claws screeching down blackboards.

Somehow, that's what does it: Carlos is _furious_, suddenly, at the schoolroom metaphor, at how _obvious _all this is. Whoever is running this show is from fucking _Night Vale _and ought to have more imagination. He almost yells that at the room, too, but he doesn't want to give it ideas. He just stands in place, humming the weather music from Cecil's last broadcast. He's going to sing that to himself until everything else stops.

_If Cecil can face down Station Management, _he tells himself, _you can do this. _

So, between verses, while he glares at eldritch equations gouged into the walls that don't even make any _sense_, he says, "I am a _scientist._ This is all _nonsense, _and you are _not getting anything else from me." _

Maybe, he thinks ruefully a moment later, he should have been a little less forceful.

Because then there's the bone-shaking toll of a clock.

Carlos, dislocated, looks up. A massive clock is suspended above him, and with every hour it strikes, it cracks. Lines splinter the glass until it looks fit to explode, like that lightbulb at the station. Tendrils of _something _hold him fast beneath it, and all the while it keeps tolling. From the splinters in the glass, the clock bleeds.

Words and memories splash down from the wounds, and everywhere they splatter across his skin, it burns.

_Schoolrooms. Neat little rows. A teacher with a too-long tongue and bone-clacking fingers striking rhythms against desks as she speaks, rhythmically, hypnotically…. _

"Stop it," he chokes out, thinking of Jane's warnings. Be careful, she'd told him. _Why didn't I listen… _

He _has _to listen now.

_Children entranced by the clock on the wall. Unmoving hands. Bone fingers mimicking the ticks until no one knows the difference between seconds and this skeletal metronome - they think the clock still lives. Rusting mechanics, lost hours, insects crawling from the core-_

The chittering is almost tangible. Carlos swipes uselessly at himself, trying to brush it away. "Stop!" he bellows.

_She's speaking, cajoling, as the skeleton clock ticks on. _Do not question. _Tick. _Don't ask what holds you here. _Tick. _Don't think of what you've lost….

Inevitably, he does. The song he'd been singing, the man whose voice he loved, it's all still in his head and it's louder than anything. The teacher, hissing, reaches for him as if she can yank it all right out of his head.

He's afraid suddenly that she can.

_Carlos - this man - _do not think of him…

"No," he cries, and then something else splits the air: a chorus of voices intoning, _ENOUGH._

Another terrible _boom _shakes the room, but this one is entirely different. It's loud enough that the teacher's voice explodes into indignant shrieks, and Carlos is knocked to the ground. The creatures flee; desks and the school walls around him explode into dust and splats of ichor. And the teacher, mute now and furious, backs up one step. Then two. Whatever she can see behind Carlos, she looks as terrified of it as she does angry.

After a cry of sound from behind him that he can't even describe, she's lost into crumbling shadow.

Carlos keeps feeling blasts of wind, as if it's propelled across the room by wingbeats. Before he can turn to see what's there, hands lift him free of the muck. The light's coming back - but this time, the source is the figures surrounding him. He thinks he glimpses faces. So many somber, unblinking eyes.

He closes his own, and with another beat that feels like the tolling of an even older, truer clock, the room vanishes.

So does the cloth over his head. It's yanked unceremoniously away, and then actual morning light, harsh and eye-squinting, slices in.

Carlos covers his face with one hand, groaning. His whole body aches, like it's been tied into uncomfortable positions for hours. That might, in fact, have been literally true. Slowly he sees fragments of metal, once handcuffs, spilled around him on the floor. They've left singed marks upon the tiles. He swallows hard through a parched throat and looks up.

What he sees is entirely different from the room he just left.

He's sitting in a small room in what looks like the police station. A faded calendar from 1953 hangs listlessly on one wall. The opposite is plastered with posters bearing propaganda slogans - the same ones he's heard Cecil repeating on the radio, sometimes. In the distance, an ancient telephone is ringing.

And three anonymous figures are withdrawing from him, muttering unhappily.

"What," he croaks to the anonymous policemen, "did you _do _to me?"

He doesn't get an answer. One of the figures mutters, "You're free to go, sir," and points.

Carlos turns. He's not lying; the door leading out of the room is open.

Carlos rises. His knees wobble and his head spins, until he wonders when it was he last ate, or slept. The first few steps take effort. The last few are nearly at a run. He emerges into the parched air of a desert morning, and the bright, clear sun nearly makes him cry with relief.

So do the approaching, backlit silhouettes, because even by that light, he can tell who's coming.

The shorter figure is Cactus Judy - or Jane - or Joan - who's leading the second person along. When she glimpses Carlos, she points and breathes, "He's there!"

Her companion stumbles to a stop, and stares.

Time seems to slow. Perhaps, knowing Night Vale, it actually does. Then, before Carlos can even move, Cecil lurches forward into a sprint and throws his arms around him, hugging him tight. That beautiful voice of his is a bare whisper. "You didn't come home."

"I… I know. I'm sorry."

"We had an _agreement," _Cecil says, muffled and strange. "We had a _date._ We were going to watch those ridiculous nature documentaries of yours and you were going to prove your theories about mountains and make that… that soda jerk volcano…."

"Baking soda."

"And _this_. Last time, when you got hurt… at least then I _knew. _But this time no one knew. I couldn't find you. And we had. A date."

"I'm so sorry."

Cecil stands back, searching out something in his face. One hand cups Carlos' cheek. "You're _supposed _to be the reliable one," he says plaintively. And for some reason that makes Carlos laugh - helplessly and almost frantically, but it's a laugh - and it only ends when Cecil kisses him. It's so warm and intimate that Carlos has one distant thought about Cactus Judy watching them, and that he ought to care about that, but he doesn't. No matter much his whole body hurts right now, the kiss sets it to singing.

"Let's get out of here," Carlos murmurs finally. Cecil nods, and tugs Carlos along.

It's only then that he feels something odd: a brush of movement, like something else softly caressing his cheek and then slipping away.

Carlos blinks. He turns from Cecil - noticing in the process that Jane is nowhere to be seen - to see a delicate, tapered thing spinning in a lazy loop to the ground. It settles before his feet. Breathless, Carlos bends to pick it up, and sees light glinting off its edge as he lifts it into the sunlight.

"What…?" Cecil whispers. Carlos has no answer this time. After all, officially speaking, what he's holding doesn't exist.

_That's what saved me. _He's struck by a memory of inhuman faces. _I remember everything. _

It's a single ebony feather.

...

He and Cecil don't speak about that feather, at least at first. They don't get to the nature documentaries or home-brew science experiments either. They do fall into bed, the sex cathartic and explosive and uncontrolled. And it's in the wake of that, when Carlos realizes Cecil's the one hiding bruises this time - Carlos would feel guilty, except that Cecil's also whispering, _Tell me we can do _that _again sometime - _that he finally sprawls out and remembers how to breathe.

That ebony feather is still sitting on the bedside table.

He doesn't know what to think about it. In this exhausted haze, of course, it's hard to think about anything - which had rather been the point. Cecil was more than happy to oblige, at least, and he's still making contented little murmurs, long fingers tracing idle patterns against Carlos' chest.

"So," Cecil says, and _good_ _lord, _Carlos thinks, _does he even _know_ what he sounds like right now?_ The rich, rough-edged tones make another flush of pleasure spread through him. "Now do you see why I wanted you home?"

"I do." Carlos laughs ruefully. "I _meant _to be. I just… got sidelined."

"_Research. _It must have been. I know you."

"Yeah." The strength leaves his voice. "You do."

Carlos studies Cecil's face. His expression's so warm right now, so open, and it all feels true. Still, when his hand gently touches Cecil's cheek, he _wonders, _again, what he has here.

And what exactly he saw.

"What is it?" Cecil asks. Carlos' fingers drift down to his lips, softly silencing him; then after a second, he sighs. When he lies back down again, Cecil props himself up in turn for a better view. He's not stupid, of course, no matter how many strange Night Vale-ian ideas he may have about the world. And he is a reporter.

So naturally, he asks.

"What _actually _happened?" he says grimly.

Carlos groans. He hasn't the faintest idea where to start. It had been such a simple question, after all, and for it to cause all this trouble -

_No wonder no one in this town gives me a straight answer about anything._

"I asked the wrong questions," he says at last. "I just… I guess I started to pry too far. I wanted resources. I went to the newspaper."

"Carlos," Cecil breathes. "They're _dangerous-" _

"I know. I bribed the editor to get through." Cecil looks impressed at his audacity. "She let me into the archives, but I guess she called me in while I was there. I was just trying to figure out -"

He stops, shivers, and doesn't say it.

"What I found didn't make sense," he says instead. "The years don't work out. Some are too long and some are too short and things are just - too _old." _

"We've talked about that," Cecil says, reaching down to brush Carlos' hair back. Even in the midst of this, it's comforting. His eyes drift shut under the gentle pressure. "You said the clocks were wrong."

"They're all broken. Time just… it's _broken _here, Cecil. And I thought I understood - I thought it didn't matter - but then it just…"

Remembering the cracking, bleeding clock above him, Carlos falls silent. Cecil's hand slowly goes still. "You're trembling."

He is, although he's only aware of it as a distant, disconnected fact. He'd felt so physically present a moment ago, but it's starting to slide.

"Carlos," Cecil says more forcefully. "What happened?"

He tries again, hesitantly meeting Cecil's gaze. "The police didn't want me asking about it. They… intervened." He licks dry lips. "They tried to re-educate me."

The response is as unsettling as he'd feared. In that moment, he realizes he's seen Cecil in a lot of different moods before - but he's never seen Cecil _angry. _The mood falls over Cecil like a shadow, and his whole body quakes from the bruising force of it.

"How _dare _they?" His beautiful voice goes dark and furious, and his eyes glint oddly. "What did they take?"

"Cecil, I-"

"What did they _do?"_

Carlos sits up, afraid not for himself but for whatever Cecil might do. Cecil, he remembers, has been through re-education himself. He knows exactly how bad it can be. And right now, he looks like he wants revenge.

_He loves you enough that he'd do it, _a tiny thought whispers. It's both terrifying and terribly, terribly exciting. Despite that treacherous idea, though, he tries to defuse things.

"Cecil," he says. "Ssh. They didn't succeed."

"But-"

"What they tried to take was _you," _he says softly. "I think it's obvious that _that_ didn't work."

The anger breaks. Now Cecil just looks horrified. He takes Carlos' face between his hands, then leans forward until their foreheads are touching. Cecil whispers, "Oh, Carlos. Don't make them try that again. Don't _ever._"

His heart seizes. He clasps Cecil's hands with his own. "I won't. I promise."

For a second more, there's just silence. Then Cecil, still shaken, says, "You didn't tell me how…."

"How I got out?"

Cecil nods. Carlos draws back enough that he can point. The feather's still there, although Cecil's been determined not to acknowledge it thus far. He'd been told not to, after all - by Station Management, and the Secret Police, and that vague government agency that probably ties everything together. Carlos, who understands the scale of the punishments now, shudders.

But he has to say _something._

"They came for me," he explains haltingly. "I don't know how they got there, or how they knew I was in that station in the first place, but - God, why am I even asking? They're _angels." _He shrugs helplessly. "They knew. They got me out."

_But why? And how did Judy know where to find me this morning? _

That, he has no answer for at all.

Cecil reaches for the feather. "Angels," he murmurs. He comes back holding it as gingerly as the policeman had Cecil's improbable photograph. He's fascinated, though, turning it in midair. The light glints on its edge again, and Carlos suddenly finds that to be curious. It's as if somehow the feather's -

Cecil slips, and curses.

- sharp.

_"Ouch," _Cecil says. He drops the feather, which lands more heavily this time, like something's weighing it down. Carlos' mouth opens in shock. When he lifts the feather and runs one finger down its length, it's still soft.

Except that Cecil's blood is now smudged upon his finger.

"What?" he whispers. Cecil doesn't reply. He's gripping his right wrist with his left hand, making his wound visible. It's not deep, but it clearly stings. "_Cecil._ Let me see that."

He knows there's a first-aid kit somewhere - it's required in Night Vale to keep a well-stocked one at all times, in preparation for household accidents, eldritch incursions and the odd government-mandated earthquake - but after a moment he simply thinks _to hell with it, _and draws the finger into his mouth. Cecil reacts first with surprise, then a purely erotic shiver.

"I, um," Cecil says, his voice catching. "Is that - some sort of scientifically approved medical technique where you're….?"

It sort of is, and Carlos could go on a whole tangent here about human saliva and instincts regarding wounds - but he just pulls Cecil's finger in deeper, in a deliberately suggestive ploy. It's not until Cecil's visibly lost track of the entire conversation that Carlos releases him. The taste still lingers on his tongue: coppery and dark, shot through with something lightning-sharp.

"You know, I'm not ever going to tell you this often, Cecil," he murmurs, "but for right now?"

Cecil stares. Carlos throws everything else to the winds, knocks the feather from the rumpled sheets and pulls him closer.

"Stop talking," he says.

Fortunately, Cecil takes the hint.

They don't get out of bed again for a very long time.

...

Eventually, responsibility and practicalities do catch up with them both.

Cecil, after a time, makes himself presentable again and heads off to work; Carlos returns to the lab. He doesn't get much done except for staring at spreadsheets and charts, though. Everything looks like nonsense. He eventually decides, after everything's _continued_ to look like nonsense for a sufficient length of time, he'd be better off getting some sleep.

Unfortunately, that doesn't go easily either. And in the middle of all his restless turning, something starts niggling at him again.

No matter how grateful he is to have been rescued from that station, it still doesn't make sense.

_The angels knew where to find me, _he thinks. He's staring at the feather, which is somehow still visible even across the darkened room. _Cactus Jane knew where to find me. So did she know beforehand what would happen? _

That's a disconcerting thought. Still, there's absolutely nothing malicious in her that he can see. She can't have set him up. She'd tried to tell him to be careful, after all. Warned him that things here were… what was the word?

_Unstable. _

He goes back to poking at all this like a loose tooth.

_So… she meant to help. Things just happened. But where do the angels fit? They're usually so… exclusive. I mean, I thought that old woman was the only one who was friends with them-_

Something about that thought hits Carlos from behind. He tries it again.

_The old woman that the angels help. Because she doesn't have anyone else._

He turns the thought to another angle.

_Because her husband's gone, and her son will need to wander…._

He sits bolts upright, suddenly trembling. He's almost there, _almost_ - and he has to do something _now _before he loses it.

He scrambles out of bed and across the room to find his phone.

_Time. That's what it comes down to. If it goes too long and then too short and distorted every which way like it does here, why couldn't it also go _non-linear? _And then can't some of Night Vale's _people_ also be…. also be…._

He knocks several things off his desk in the dark, including the feather. It spins up into midair instead of down, but Carlos barely notices. He just grabs for his phone and dials a familiar number.

It's the line for Cecil, who always seems to be Cecil no matter how long the time goes - and who, after all's said and done, is actually the reliable one here.

He clutches the phone and waits for Cecil to pick up. It doesn't take long.

"Carlos," Cecil says warmly. It's like - Carlos wants to laugh - the time doesn't matter at all. "What is it?"

"Cactus Jane," he blurts out. "Or Judy. Or _whatever _her name is-"

"Julie, last week. It's Jessie now."

"But how do you know? Why does it keep changing?"

"Because _she _does," he says simply. "She said she'll pick one someday - but not until it's time to stop. Why?"

"_Has it ever been Josie?" _

There's a surprised silence. Then there's a sound like wingbeats, and of something moving through the air.

Carlos spins around to see that feather fluttering back down again. It lands in the palm of an outstretched hand. The figure it belongs to is tall, terrible and astonishing, and as dark as the void between stars… but no matter how inhuman its face might be, Carlos _knows _that it's smiling.

And after all this, he finally gets an answer.

_Not yet, _the angel says, before it vanishes.

Carlos staggers back against his desk. He's staring into nothing, and he can't get enough breath to tell Cecil what just happened. But when he finally does, he gulps and stutters - and then bursts out laughing again. He laughs and laughs, feeling overwhelmed by the impossibility of everything around him.

But he's also feeling the much-needed hope that no matter how strange and terrifying things might get here, no matter how broken, there's still _something _-

- and there's still a voice at the other end of the line, may _always _be a voice, calling out to be sure he's all right.

"Yes, Cecil," he says at last, knowing that this above all things deserves an answer. "Yes, I'm here."

"Are you-"

"And I love you, you know that? I do."

He can practically _hear _Cecil smiling. The sound of his reply reverberates all the way through him.

And after that, they talk for the rest of the night, heedless of the time and the darkness of the hour - just listening to each other's voices, and holding on to the comfort of that for as long as the broken clocks allow.


End file.
